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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/23134381">Like sticking a fork in an electrical outlet</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliceboleyn/pseuds/aliceboleyn'>aliceboleyn</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>My Chemical Romance</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe, F.T.Willz poetry, M/M, Slam Poetry, comic writer!gerard way, social worker!frank iero</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-03-13</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-01 07:53:23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>6,029</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/23134381</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/aliceboleyn/pseuds/aliceboleyn</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Gerard is a successful comic writer in desperate search for inspiration and Frank is a dissatisfied 26 year old attempting to express what's inside him. A poem which sounds a lot like a cry for help will tie them together, for, after all, destiny does work in mysterious ways.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Frank Iero/Gerard Way</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>27</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter I</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p><em>Fuck</em>, Frank kept repeating it to himself like a mantra as he walked down the sunny sidewalk, no trace of any form of shadow in sight. He could feel small drops of sweat running down his back and wetting his stupid shirt. The more leaflets he hung the least his name on it looked like his own; and he didn’t know whether the burning sun of midday was to blame for his dissociation or if it was his mind doing what it knew how to do best. In any case, choosing to advertise his pathetic attempt to escape anonymity on his lunch break had turned out to be a terrible idea. <em>Fuck, fuck, fuck.</em></p><p> </p><p>As he stopped to catch his breath, he realized he still had fifteen minutes before he had to get back to work and at least two hundred leaflets in his hands. He would never make it, nor his body would assist him.</p><p>He was about to give up and head back when he noticed a book shop right on the other side of the road. A yellowed signboard was flickering and the windows seemed dusty even from afar, but Frank still threw himself inside it, hoping to find a way to get rid of the remaining leaflets and to avoid fainting in the middle of a busy road.</p><p>“Hello.” He said once he reached the center of the deserted shop. A strong smell of old paper and smoke pervaded the air to the point that Frank found himself longing for the sultriness of the outside world.</p><p>“Just a second!” a distant voice came from the back of the shop and, for some reason, Frank thought it sounded familiar, although he struggled to figure out who it belonged to. He had almost come to the conclusion that it must have been Ben, the boy who lived next to his mum, when a light haired man come out with a pile of books in his hands.</p><p>“How can I help?” he asked, leaving the books on the counter. As he looked up, Frank had no doubt, he was Mikey Way.</p><p>“Frank! What are you doing here?”</p><p><em>Good fucking question</em>, Frank thought and it must have been visible because Mikey laughed in a condescending way, filling the void left by Frank’s awkward silence.</p><p>“What are those leaflets about?”</p><p>“Oh right, – said Frank, disentangling from the fog inside his mind – it’s about some stupid slam poetry competition.” He handed one of the leaflets to Mikey.</p><p>“Your name’s on it! I didn’t know you were into poetry.” Mikey looked genuinely excited and Frank felt dizzy once again.</p><p>“Yeah – I am, sort of, I don’t know how I let myself get involved into all of this though.”</p><p>“But that’s great! I was waiting for someone to bring slam poetry to Jersey. I’ll surely come.”</p><p>“Awesome! Would you mind if I left you some? I feel like a bookshop is a better collocation than next to missing cats’ posters.”</p><p>“Sure, go ahead. Although I must tell you, we don’t get many costumers these days, with all the online websites and stuff.”</p><p>Frank nodded, undecided on what would be best to say.</p><p>“What are you doing now by the way? Other than writing poetry, I mean.” asked Mikey with an amused grin on his lips.</p><p>“I’m a social worker at Belleville High School.” Frank had to use all his strength to seem at least vaguely excited while he said it.</p><p>“That’s where I used to go. Well, I’m sorry man, it must be hell.”</p><p>“Yeah, it can be sometimes. – replied Frank, casually glancing at the watch on his wrist and suddenly realizing he was pretty much late. – Ah shit, I’ve got to go. See you tomorrow night then!”</p><p>“See you tomorrow.” said Mikey waving him goodbye with a pale hand before Frank turned around and started walking away.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Gerard had always liked couches, soft and warm, with their comforting ability to suck the life out of your body, as motivation slowly dripped like blood on the ground and disappeared into the cracks of the floor.</p><p>“– when was even the last time you left the house?”</p><p>Mikey had been talking for a while, standing in the middle of the living room, but Gerard had barely listened.</p><p>“I don’t know and I don’t care, actually, I’m busy.”</p><p>“Busy?” Mikey laughed, a high pitched, bitter sound.</p><p>“Do you know how many deadlines I’ve skipped in the last two months? Three. Fucking three, Mikey. The only reason why they aren’t firing my ass is because I have a contract and because my comics sell well.  All I need to do now is sit here and watch TV until I come across a good story.”</p><p>Mikey sighed, sitting down next to his brother on the couch.</p><p>“Don’t you think that going out and breathing some fresh hair might help you find some sort of inspiration? Clearly TV isn’t helping anymore.”</p><p>Gerard shook his head, although Mikey might have had a point. After all, giving up completely on reality wasn’t working its magic as it used to do.</p><p>“Well anyway I wouldn’t know where to go nor with who.”</p><p>“Actually,” said Mikey, pulling out a folded piece of paper from his jeans and giving it to Gerard. “yesterday a guy I used to go to college with came by the shop and left this. I was thinking of going, you could come too. You wouldn’t even have to interact that much.”</p><p>And after a few seconds spent in silence and a series of mild protests, Gerard decided to agree and go with Mikey. He had been in that house for so long that he had started to forget what people aside from Mikey and his mother actually looked like.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>He was going to be sick. Frank could feel it from the way his breath came short and heavy, how his stomach twisted and folded on itself repeatedly and his hands were sweaty and cold. Watching everyone chat and laugh around him made his sight go blurry.</p><p>“You alright Iero? You seem on the verge of a panic attack.” Asked Melanie, with a smile somewhere between amused and worried. She was Frank’s colleague, she too worked as a social worker at Belleville High, and it was her who had insisted on getting involved in the project.</p><p>Frank did in fact feel on the verge of a panic attack so all he could answer was. “Fuck Melanie, I’m going to die.”</p><p>“Hey, it’s ok. Most people feel this way on their first time in front of a big audience.”</p><p>“There are like fifty people.” Frank felt the need to correct her, probably falling into the trap she was setting.</p><p>“You see? Not so much of a big deal. If you were to suck, probably not even twenty people would remember.”</p><p>“Mikey Way will be there.” Frank said, trying to shift the attention from himself.</p><p>“Oh shit.”</p><p>“Do you know him?”</p><p>Melanie slightly opened the curtain to have a look at the crowd which had gathered.</p><p>“I sucked his dick in senior year during a camping trip.” She answered, still focused on the audience. “Oh there he is.  – He’s not alone, though. I think it’s his brother.”</p><p>“You – what?” Frank felt overwhelmed and he was quite sure Melanie could tell by the way she immediately closed the curtain to face him again, a kind smile on her face.</p><p>“I was a bit wild as a teen, I told you. Mikey was all angsty and intellectual, you know, I couldn’t help myself.”</p><p>At another time Frank would have begged Melanie for the full story, but in that moment keeping his nausea under control seemed already hard enough.</p><p>“I didn’t know he had a brother.” He later said, once he felt he had sufficient air in his lungs.</p><p>“Yeah, he’s two or three years older. When I met Mikey he had already left for college, if I remember correctly he’s an artist or something like that. Also kind of cute, the chaotic type, you might like him.”</p><p><em>Thank you so much</em>, Frank thought, as invisible hands were wrapping around his throat. Finding out five minutes before the beginning of the show that Mikey Way and his handsome brother were both there to witness his tragic failure was the last thing Frank needed. In any case they probably had come just to make fun of him, have a close look at what a freakshow looked like, and he would hardly disappoint them.</p><p>“We’re starting in a few minutes.” Said Caroline, the girl who was hosting the competition, placing a hand on Frank’s shoulder, perhaps in an attempt to calm him down.</p><p>Frank, on the other hand, was rather sure he was going to pass out.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>-</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Gerard had been mildly entertained by the poems he had heard so far, yet, surely, far from inspired by them. It was taking him a great deal of strength in order to not complain about it with Mikey, who, instead, had been clapping and laughing the whole time.</p><p>Gerard leaned closer to Mikey’s ear and said: “You know what? I think I’m gonna go home. It’s getting kind of late and I should wake up early tomorrow. – It was fun though.” he added, once he saw Mikey’s smile fade on his lips.</p><p>“At least wait until my friend’s turn! I’m sure he’ll be really good.”</p><p>Gerard hesitated, but then nodded, resting his back against the chair. He didn’t care much about Mikey’s friend, but he was tired of disappointing his brother, so he stayed.</p><p>Mikey’s friend ended up being among the last ones and at some point Gerard felt he had been seated on that chair for so long that his mind had totally left his body. It was, however, abruptly dragged back inside once Mikey nudged him with his elbow and whispered: “It’s him.”</p><p>In that moment, Gerard did pay attention. It was a dark haired guy with a dazzling smile on his lips and shaking hands. He seemed a bit younger than him, lacking the heavy, suffocating, sense of stillness Gerard had felt so trapped in since he’d turned thirty.</p><p> </p><p><em>“Vapid pustules don’t get a free parking pass </em>– He stuttered slightly, barely a second, Gerard thought, but it seemed enough to make Mikey whisper <em>shit </em>with closed teeth.</p><p><em>just because they’re pretty.</em> – He finished.</p><p>
  <em>They’ve gotta earn that,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>everybody has to earn that. No one has a right to</em>
</p><p><em>anything and no one has a wrong to anything. </em>– Clever, Gerard had to admit – <em>write</em></p><p>
  <em>right and wrong, a veritable volatile pair of</em>
</p><p>
  <em>catastrophes.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>That skin sack of human waste crossing the street</em>
</p><p>
  <em>when the light goes green? That’s just someone</em>
</p><p>
  <em>searching for death, disappointed that they don’t</em>
</p><p><em>have it yet. “Why not me? Why not now?” </em>– it felt so personal, Gerard felt a poignant ache in his chest –<em> because</em></p><p>
  <em>they’re looking for it. Death answers to no one and</em>
</p><p>
  <em>pays unexpected visits to many, like that one</em>
</p><p>
  <em>asshole friend everybody has who says they’ll stay</em>
</p><p>
  <em>for one night and ends up staying for the whole</em>
</p><p>
  <em>week. Clogging up your toilet, eating all your food,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>taking up all your space. yet still you love them.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>That’s what death is. Just everybody’s asshole friend.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>Except it doesn’t stay for a week, it stays for</em>
</p><p>
  <em>eternity.</em>
</p><p><em>Fuck this shit. </em>– he added, every uncertainty in his voice lost and replaced by a sort of mysterious anger. <em>Seems a lot like sticking a fork in an electrical outlet</em></p><p>
  <em>just to see what’ll happen: stupid. It all appears so</em>
</p><p>
  <em>wonderful, and then later all the flaws show: every</em>
</p><p>
  <em>error, every misplaced stitch, every tear. Putting it</em>
</p><p>
  <em>together could be compared to pulling the stitches</em>
</p><p>
  <em>out of an unhealed laceration, pulling them out too</em>
</p><p>
  <em>soon, peeling the skin apart just to see what it looks</em>
</p><p>
  <em>like inside. Painful.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>But pain is life and life is pain, so at the same time,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>it’s a lot like creating life. Once it’s out of my hands,</em>
</p><p>
  <em>it’s not mine anymore.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And all the poor, sniveling, bleeding hearts are</em>
</p><p>
  <em>crying for nothing. Red white and blue blood cells</em>
</p><p>
  <em>mixed with salt water and untold amounts of</em>
</p><p>
  <em>naiveté, that’s all they really are. But they smashed</em>
</p><p>
  <em>the mirrors on the walls before they had the chance</em>
</p><p>
  <em>to see themselves.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>There will be no pity.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>There will be no remorse.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>There will be no love.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>There will be no anything.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>And that’s just the way it will be.”</em>
</p><p>Frank had run out of breath, his chest rising and lowering quickly, and a smile had resurfaced on his reddened face.</p><p>It took a while for Gerard to join the audience in its applause. He felt frozen, still wrapped in the magic and violence of Frank’s words. He didn’t remember the last time a performance had been able to give so much back to him and he was still in complete awe for it. He wanted to stand up and walk towards Frank, shake his hand, or even hold him into a hug, just to thank him for the pain he had caused him. Fresh and sweet like poison drunk from a crystal glass.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>--</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>In the end, Frank did not win. But it was fine with him because he’d managed not to pass out or throw up on stage, so it was a sort of win nonetheless. All the tension was finally leaving his body, small waves of shiver were running through his spine and legs, as he joined Melanie and some of the other guys who had performed that night.</p><p>As soon as she saw him, Melanie’s face broke in a wide smile, almost as wide as her open arms, seconds before she pulled him into a tight hug.</p><p>“God, Frank, that was fucking cool!” She said then. And Frank thought of how weird it sounded to be complimented about a poem he’d written at 3 am on Christmas Day.</p><p>“Thanks, Mel. So was yours!” He tried to seem as convincing as possible, although Melanie had spent every lunch break of the previous two weeks repeating it to Frank until it started to sicken him.</p><p> “Now come on, hurry up, I don’t want to miss Mikey.”</p><p>“What?” Frank felt as if invisible hands had grabbed him by the shoulders and violently pushed him against a wall. His mind had completely erased the notion of the Way’s brothers sitting among the audience.</p><p>Melanie showed him a sly grin. “I haven’t fucked in three months. Hearing a few compliments from him will be the closest to an orgasm I’ll get tonight.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>When they left the theater, Mikey immediately spotted them and starting waving a hand and gesturing something Frank couldn’t quite figure out. He was on the phone though, which probably meant they should wait for him to finish and couldn’t just run away as Frank was secretly planning to do.</p><p>“Hey!” An unfamiliar voice came from Frank’s back. “Hi, I’m Mikey’s brother.”  </p><p>He hesitated, probably waiting for Frank to introduce himself. Frank, however, was at a loss for words. Every feature on Mikey’s brother’s face too unique and charming to allow him to concentrate on anything else.</p><p>“I’m Melanie.” Her voice woke Frank from his daydreams.</p><p>“Gerard. Nice to meet you.” He said to her, although Frank kept feeling Gerard’s gaze on him.</p><p>“Frank. My pleasure.” He then replied, trying to mask his embarrassment with a nervous laugh.</p><p>Gerard seemed surprised for a second, but then laughed as well, a high pitched, uplifting sound that left Frank’s stomach twisted in a pleasant way, for the first time that night.</p><p>Mikey came back a few moments later. “Sorry, it was my landlord.”</p><p>“What about him?” asked Gerard, his attention suddenly shifted on Mikey.</p><p>“He asked me if I could pay rent in advance. He’s going through a divorce and said he needs the money for a new lawyer or something like that.”</p><p>“Do you need some help?” Gerard lowered his voice and Frank felt as an intruder, overhearing a private conversation.</p><p>Mikey, on the other hand, looked uneasy. He scratched the back of his head and turned around to face Melanie and Frank.</p><p>“By the way you guys have been great tonight. Almost made me want to go back to college and actually get a degree.”</p><p>Frank hadn’t seen Mikey more than once or twice after he’d left college, but each time he always awkwardly joked about the fact he hadn’t managed to graduate.</p><p>“Thanks, it’s nice seeing you again.” Answered Melanie, her rosy cheeks visible even under the flickering light of the street lamps.</p><p> </p><p>“Your poem was really good. I mean it, exceptionally good. The best of the night if you ask me.”</p><p>Gerard walked closer to Frank, a tiny smile made his cheekbones stand out, fierce and delicate.</p><p>“Thank you. I never thought I would say those words aloud, you know, they were meant to remain in my notebook.”</p><p>“On the contrary, they were very inspiring, and you’re talking with someone who knows it all about lacking inspiration.” Another laugh, and Frank started thinking it was a habit of his.</p><p>“I guess most people will think I’m out of my mind now, but if it inspired someone then that’s totally worth it. What do you do?”</p><p>“I write comics. Sort of. I’ve been struggling a little lately.”</p><p>One may think that as a Psychology major Frank would be used to people being that open to him, but instead he was amazed by Gerard, by the pale light that seemed to be surrounding him, untouched and smooth, nothing like the troubled kids he worked with every day.</p><p>“I’m sorry, man. But that’s really cool.”</p><p>“Yeah, I’ve been stuck for a long time, but your poem was like a stab in the back. – A needed one though.” He added, allowing his smile to reach his eyes.</p><p>“What was it? – he took out a scrappy notebook from the pocket of his coat. – <em>Death answers to no one and</em></p><p><em>pays unexpected visits to many.</em> This imagery is brilliant, I love how you compared it to a very specific kind of friend most people have. It could have such potential even for an actual story, something fictional I mean.”</p><p>Frank felt lightheaded at the notion that his words had been written down by Gerard and were going to go home with him that night, hidden and buried amongst the crumpled pages full of ideas he frantically collected.</p><p>“I don’t know what to say.” Frank said, but he would have said something, if it wasn’t for Mikey, who had left Melanie behind and suddenly looked in a rush.</p><p>“I’m afraid we have to go now. Gee and I both have to wake up early tomorrow. It was great though, thank you very much.”</p><p>Gerard seemed just as lost as Frank, but then simply nodded and said directly to Mikey: “I’ll be there in a second.”</p><p>To which Mikey nodded in response. “Hope to see you soon, Frank.”</p><p>“Of course! I’ll stop at the shop on my lunch break one of these days.”</p><p>“Great, goodnight.”</p><p>Once they were left alone once again, Gerard looked shy, scratching his jawline and showing Frank another quick smile.</p><p>“I was thinking that maybe you could send me some other poems you’ve written, if it’s fine with you. I’d really love to read them.”</p><p>Frank  lingered on the pleasant feeling which was spreading inside his chest and before he could answer, Gerard added: “I totally understand if you don’t want to share them, it’s very personal and you have every right to –”</p><p>“It’s fine. – Frank stopped him – I’m very happy to share them, actually. But I must warn you, it can get a bit dark at times.”</p><p> </p><p>After that Frank could barely remember anything. The only thing he knew was that, as he was lying in bed, a tiny piece of paper with Gerard’s number on it was resting on his nightstand and his head kept spinning at the thought of that surreal evening.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter II</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Gerard didn’t have time for dating. He had told that to himself when he was eighteen and had just started college, with big dreams and only little interest in socializing or having a love life. His ambitions had priority over anything else and he had known that his whole life. Only that way he would have been happy.<br/>Gerard did, however, end up dating. It was his last year of college and he had just been contacted by an independent publisher, but love has terrible timing, his mother always said that. His girlfriend back then had taken him completely by surprise, turning Gerard’s world upside down and leaving him in pieces when she decided he was too much to bear.<br/>As he sat on his couch on that September evening, Gerard suddenly remembered he probably still had the sheets they had slept in on their last night together, locked at the bottom of his closet, unwashed and never used since. He kept everything she had left in his apartment, frantic in his suffering, suffering which fueled inspiration and led him to the making of his best work. By then, Gerard was sure it was pain he needed, not love. The excruciating feeling of oppression that makes one long for the void. It was hard to find it though, especially when deadlines were hanging on his head like a guillotine’s blade.<br/>What Frank had done with his poem may not be comparable to the torment of  being abandoned by the person he’d envisioned his future with, but the reaction it had unleashed inside him was the closest thing to inspiration he had experience in months of emptiness. So, inevitably, he had been staring at his phone for a while.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>-</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Would you be so kind to tell me again what in God’s name you’re looking for?” asked Ray, who had evidently given up on hiding his exasperation.</p>
<p>“I told you, it’s a green leather notebook.” Answered Frank, who had been bent on his knees for so long he wasn’t sure he would be able to walk ever again.</p>
<p>“And why would it be under the couch?”</p>
<p>Ray had been Frank’s roommate for about four years, but, despite his best efforts, he was still unable to comprehend Frank’s ability to live among chaos.</p>
<p>“Well it’s not in my room, so – ”</p>
<p>“I haven’t taken your green notebook.” Ray replied immediately.</p>
<p>“I know! Fuck Ray, I wasn’t accusing you of stealing a notebook full of angsty poetry.”</p>
<p>Ray laughed and only then got up from the couch to help Frank in his search.</p>
<p>“What do you need the notebook for? Another poetry competition?”</p>
<p>“Not really, – it’s just where I write most of my poems and I can’t lose it like that.” Frank could hear his lies loud and clear as they were leaving his mouth and probably so did Ray.</p>
<p>“Frank.”</p>
<p>
  <em>“What?”</em>
</p>
<p>“You lose stuff all the time, but you don’t turn the house upside down to find it. Is that a job opportunity you were offered that is at stake because you’re a dumbass who can’t look after his belongings?”</p>
<p>Frank reemerged from the cupboard under the kitchen sink just to give Ray an amused look.</p>
<p>“Don’t overestimate me, Toro. I’m afraid I won’t make a living out of my poetry anytime soon.”</p>
<p>“Then what is it?” Ray insisted.</p>
<p>“Alright,–  so last night someone I used to go to college with came to see me. He’d also brought his brother, a weird guy, but also quite handsome. After the show he stopped me to tell me he thought my poem was really cool and that he’d like to read some other ones. He’s a comic writer and said they were somewhat inspiring. I don’t know, but I can’t send him anything if I don’t find this fucking notebook.”</p>
<p>Ray stayed silent for a while, his mouth half open in surprise. “Dude. That’s a thousand times better than a job offer!” he ended up saying, a wide smile on his lips.</p>
<p>“Well, let’s not exaggerate now,  - Frank said, only half-heartedly – but yeah, it’s insane. I don’t want to fuck it up.”</p>
<p>“No, no, you’re right. We must choose wisely or he’ll get scared. If he’s a comic writer he’d probably enjoy more something with an actual narrative, not just a stream of consciousness. I mean, I don’t have anything against your stream of consciousnesses, on the contrary, they’re very – heart wrenching. Just, maybe you should go for – “</p>
<p>“Found it!” Frank interrupted him, the green notebook in his right hand. “I can’t believe it was right next to the Bible.”</p>
<p>“The Bible? Do we have a Bible?”</p>
<p>“Yeah, my mom insisted I had one with me <em>just in case</em>.” Frank said, mocking her apprehensive expression once she had found out he was going to live near a cemetery.</p>
<p>“In case you needed an exorcism?”</p>
<p>“For that we’d need something a bit more specific, I’m afraid.”</p>
<p>“Well, you’re the expert.” Said Ray, raising his hands and laughing. “Anyway, what sort of person did he look like? Do you think he’d appreciate the darker stuff or he’d get scared?”</p>
<p>“Oh I don’t think he would get scared. When we talked he told me he’d written down a part of my poem that directly referenced death. I mean, maybe I could avoid the ones about ulcers and massacres, but, aside from that, we should be fine.”</p>
<p>“Oh man, did he? Fuck, I can’t believe I missed the show.” Ray sounded sorry and Frank knew he was.</p>
<p>“Ray, it’s no big deal, I told you. You get to attend my pitiful little shows almost every night.”</p>
<p>“Yeah, next time bring this hot dude along. I don’t have much in my hands to help you right now.”</p>
<p>Frank laughed, friendly patting Ray on the shoulder.</p>
<p>“I hope I will.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>-</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Frank actually ended up looking for poems that seemed to have at least a vague resemblance to a story and not just a flow of thoughts about his miserable life. When the alarm next to his bed struck two in the morning, however, he came to the conclusion that the only option he had was to disappoint Gerard.<br/>He thought it might be better to just go to sleep and send him something the next day, but after a solid half an hour spent rolling over, he decided to send the text he had already prepared and hope his mind would allow him at least a few hours of rest before work.</p>
<p><strong><em>Frank, 2.35 AM: </em></strong>Hey, it’s Frank! I’ve found a couple of poems that I think don’t suck as much as the others, so you might want to check them out when you have some time. No worries if you’ve changed your mind, I’d totally understand it, goodnight!</p>
<p>2 attachments. </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>As Frank picked up his phone the next morning, his mind still foggy and his sight blurry, he had already prepared himself to the possibility of not finding any texts from Gerard yet. After all, it was barely half past seven. On the contrary, an unknown number was among his notifications.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><strong><em>Gerard, 5:27 AM:</em></strong> Hi! Thanks for the poems, I’ll check them out right away,</p>
<p> </p>
<p><strong><em>Gerard, 7:14 AM:</em></strong> Sorry… It’s me again. I was wondering if you’d like to meet for coffee before you go to work or later this afternoon, I think it’d be nicer to talk face to face.</p>
<p>I absolutely get it if you’re busy!</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>-</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Gerard had been walking around his apartment for hours. He tied up and cleaned shelves, washed his mugs although he had a dishwasher, opened all the windows, made his bed, prepared coffee, closed the windows, threw coffee down the sink and nothing, not any of those things, brought solace to his anxiety nor made time speed up.</p>
<p>At, 7:33, however, a sharp sound filled the silence.</p>
<p> </p>
<p><strong><em>Frank, 7:33 AM:</em></strong> Sure, I’d love that! Erin’s Café in half an hour? Does it work for you?</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>-</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Gerard missed the address a couple of time before he eventually found the cafeteria; he hadn’t been there in at least ten years and, to be fair, he felt slightly sick as memories from his high school days started flashing through his mind the moment he spotted the place from afar.<br/>He was, however, distracted by a figure leaning against the wall, his hands in the pockets of a black pair of jeans and a wide smile on his lips. Frank’s face looked like a stretched canvas, fresh and clean, except for two dark circles that were visible only if one paid attention, and, of course, Gerard did pay attention.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry I’m late!” Gerard said, hoping to avoid the usual awkwardness of greetings.</p>
<p>“No problem, I’ve only just arrived.” Frank replied extending his smile a little bit.</p>
<p>Once they were sitting one in front of the other, Gerard noticed Frank was quite as he had envisioned he would be on the night they’d met. He kept his latte with both hands and his leg moved rhythmically from under the table, smiles came easily to his lips and so did words, despite the nervous flexes of his voice.</p>
<p>“So how come a Psychology graduate works at Belleville High?”</p>
<p>“Oh – Frank said, taking a sip from his cup – well, it’s kind of a long, disappointing, story.”</p>
<p>“You’re the one who’s got to be at work at 9. I have time.”</p>
<p>“Right, – he chuckled – while I was halfway through college I started to have this constant fear, almost a torment, that if I kept on with a career as a psychologist I would end up at thirty-five with an office I still had to pay mortgage for and working on weekends just to get by, and all for what? Help people? Myself? No. Just to prove my family there was no need for me to study Engineering in order to find a decent job. – So I panicked, considered dropping out and starting a punk band with some of my high school friends, but then I stayed, and all of a sudden I had a degree in my hands and a decision had to be made. I don’t know, I guess I had always been interested in working with teenagers and social working seemed a good compromise between a therapist and a barista at Dunkin’s.”</p>
<p>Gerard didn’t answer for a few seconds, simply nodding.</p>
<p>“I sort of get it, when I told my parents I wanted to do Art School they didn’t exactly say no, they just seemed vaguely disappointed. Before the whole comic thing started, I was terrified at the prospect of settling for a job I wasn’t passionate about just because I wasn’t in the position to reject the place. – But tell me, is it as horrible as it seems? Working at Belleville?”</p>
<p>“I don’t know. – You meet all sorts of fucked up kids and sometimes they treat you like pure shit, which sucks and makes you question why you would put yourself through something like that. But eventually the best you can do is try to be the person you would have needed at school growing up; when you manage to be that person the kids notice and react to it, that’s what makes it bearable.”</p>
<p>Frank was smart, Gerard could see it sparkling in his green eyes, and, despite the anger and hurt thighed in knots in his poetry, also distinctly kind.</p>
<p>“I wish people like you were around when I was going there. – Although, on second thought, I’m not sure I would have reached out.”</p>
<p>Frank laughed, looking away for a second, before he went back to meet Gerard’s gaze.</p>
<p>“Listen, I know it’s cliché as fuck, but the main reason I wanted a degree in Psychology was that this way I’d be able to analyze myself without the effort to go see a therapist. It turns out that’s not exactly how it works.”</p>
<p>Gerard only smiled to that. A deep rooted feeling of discomfort briefly scratched the surface of his mind, as the sweaty face of his therapist, who he’d been neglecting for the past two months, suddenly projected itself in front of him. Right next to Frank, who looked confused.</p>
<p>“Is everything alright?”</p>
<p>“Yeah – sorry. I’ve just remembered I have to call someone. Nevermind. Before it’s too late, I brought you something.” He was aware that he must be rumbling, but it was eight thirty and he was definitely running out of time.</p>
<p>The sheets were a bit crumpled from staying inside his backpack, so he tried to fix the wrinkles before he put them on the table.</p>
<p>“Okay, so, this is really random and I’m not that skilled at drawing, but I’ve brought you some sketches I did last night inspired from your poem. I don’t know, to thank you, I guess.”</p>
<p>Gerard was very nervous about what he had just done, his palms sweating and his chest tightening. After months spent in almost complete isolation and drown in apathy, Frank and his words were something he couldn’t quite fix into any of the drawers of  his mind, but that he cherished with all his heart. What he was sure about, on the other hand, was that the last time he had felt that invested in something it had left him with horrible bruises and, in a way, that was exactly what Gerard was looking for.</p>
<p>“God, that is awesome. – said Frank with a smile so wide his dry lips seemed about to crack – Seriously, no one has ever done anything like this for me! And your style is so cool, I really love this. Thank you.”</p>
<p>Heat reached Gerard’s cheeks as he leaned forward across the table to point at the drawings. </p>
<p>“These are just a few I came up with after I heard your poem the other night, I don’t know, if you like them I can do something similar for the other two you sent me, which I liked very much as well.”</p>
<p>Frank looked genuinely delighted, or at least that’s what Gerard hoped. He had always liked the idea of gifting things he’d worked on to people, either it was a painting, a cake or a poem, the nervousness that anticipated the moment and the feeling of relief, warm and sparkly, that followed. He couldn’t remember ever doing it for someone he had just met though, but nothing about that situation or Frank seemed ordinary, so he reckoned it might be worth the risk.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>They spent the following ten minutes discussing the other poems and how cool it would be to have them all illustrated, as some sort of art project they would never show anyone but themselves. It wasn’t even remotely close to what his publisher expected from him, but Gerard had been kept underwater by chains he had crafted himself for almost a year and everything that seemed at least vaguely similar to fresh air, or inspiration, as most would call it, he greeted with joy, that had become his rule.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“What about your comics? Won’t it take too much of your time?” asked Frank at some point.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Not that I wouldn’t spent watching shitty tv programs at 6 am.” Gerard answered with a laugh.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>-</p>
<p> </p>
<p> </p>
<p>Gerard ended up walking with Frank until he reached the school gates.</p>
<p>“I guess I have to enter Hell now.” Frank said, a feeble smile on his lips.</p>
<p>“Well, good luck. Let’s – let’s keep in touch.” Gerard hated how awkward it must have sounded.</p>
<p>“I was thinking maybe one of these days you could come at my place to look through some of the things I’ve written. So that you can pick the ones you find more suitable yourself.”</p>
<p>Gerard struggled to find the right words, as the sun violently hit Frank’s cheekbones, projecting elegant shadows on his face and making his hesitant eyes look bigger.<br/>He considered declining, freezing the memory of their brief encounter in order to store it on a golden shelf in his mind, before he walked away forever.</p>
<p>“Sounds great. I’ll text you later this afternoon. – he eventually said – Have a nice day, Frank.”</p>
<p>Frank didn’t say anything, but he was still smiling when Gerard turned around to head back to his car</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>FOLKS,<br/>It only took me almost two months to complete this, but as it seems a pandemic won't stop uni exams, Shocked and Upset. I'm positive I'll be able to post the third part sooner than this time. <br/>In the meantime I really hope you like this even though very little happens,</p>
<p>Alice</p>
        </blockquote><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>HELLO,<br/>I can't believe I'm actually uploading a Frerard fanfic in the year of our lord 2020, but now that it's no longer against the law to talk about it, I felt the need to share with you this weird idea I had. This was meant to be a one shot, but I love disappointing myself so I decided to be ambitious and divide it into chapters. I really hope you like it!<br/>Alice<br/>P.s. The poem I used is from F.T.Willz and is called "create shittily and shit creatively" :D</p></blockquote></div></div>
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